They had been hunting a wendigo. They took the job because it was simple, it was easy, and it was something they didn't have to stress themselves out over. Dean had taken Cas with him, because Sam was.. Sam wasn't available. His brother hadn't come out of the guest bedroom of Bobby's upstairs in days, he refused to go near his family and friends again after that last time; he nearly killed Dean two weeks ago during one of his episodes. Things were, to say the least, fucked up for Team Free Will.
So, Dean took Castiel on an old-fashioned run of the mill hunting trip. The problem? They'd been in the woods, as you are during most Wendigo hunts, and Castiel apparently touched the damn worst thing he could've while they were camping. Dean figured that it had to have been when the guy went to take a shit, because the poison ivy was all over his lower redness went from the back of his thighs up to his lower back. Dean suspected that it had reached the poor sucker's ball sack, too.
God, they could never catch a break. Even the simplest of hunts had turned into a god damned catastrophe and now he was rubbing chamomile lotion on an ex-angel's ass.
It was an understatement to say that neither hunter nor angel were happy about their current predicament. Cas kept making noises of discomfort, the cold liquid touching *all* the wrong places. Dean kept telling him to shut up and take it like a man, then made faces when he realized that sounded awfully fucking gay considering what was happening. Castiel would growl at him to hurry up.. But Dean couldn't, as much as he wanted to. He had to get the entire stretch of rash, because he was NOT going to watch Castile *scratch* down there for the next however long it takes to heal.
"I am certain that chamomile does not heal a rash such as this one, Dean." Castiel sighed, he'd been trying to convince Dean that all these 'home remedies' were useless, but the hunter remained determined to make this shit just.. Go away.
"Yeah? How would you know, Angelface? I'm pretty sure you've never had Poison Ivy rash, I have." Dean grumbled, using the washcloth to spread more lotion. He took in a deep breath, for some reason he'd decided that not breathing through his nose would make this somewhat less painful.
"Okay, spread 'em."
"Spread what, exactly?"
"Spread your legs." Dean turned five different shades of red as he spoke, aggravated and embarrassed.
"Oh." Castiel slowly, but surely, spread his legs on the frumpled garbage bag that Dean had put on the bed.
Dean clenched his jaw, bucked up, and moves Castiel's cheeks apart, dabbing the washcloth graciously on the reddening dry skin. He moved lower, his hand hesitantly picking up Castiel's ball groaned, horrified but incredibly aroused by the foreign touch. Dean suddenly wished that Sam had pulled that damned trigger on him two weeks ago.
Dean finished spreading the chamomile over the rash and cleared his throat loudly, trying to ignore the tightening of his own jeans and the noises he'd heard escape Castiel's throat just seconds before. "Get your ass up, we're done." He added, turning to throw the washcloth in the garbage. "Well, there goes the idea of 'good old Wendigo days'."